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VERSES 



BY 



NICHOLAS BIDDLE. 



AN 



ODE TO BOGLE 



NICHOLAS BIDDLE. 



JULY 16, 1829. 



Robert Bogle, the subject of the foliowiDg Jeu d'esprit, was a well-known 
character in his day, and resided in "Eighth near Sansom" Street, in the City 
of Philadelphia. He united the vocations of public waiter and undertaker, fre- 
quently officiating at a funeral in the afternoon and at a party on the evening 
of the same day — presenting on all occasions the same gravity of demeanor. 
The term "colorless colored man" was especially descriptive of Bogle, as he was 
a very light mulatto. The " fantastic toe " was an allusion to his occasional 
indulgence, toward the end of an entertainment, in some of the liquids which 
he so decorously dispensed to the guests. " .Johnson " and " Shepard " were also 
public waiters of only inferior fame. 



PHILADELPHIA. 

1889. 






GMt 

Mrs. GalllanI Hunt 
March 31.1933 



AN ODE TO BOGLE. 



DEDICATED, WITH PERMISSION AND A PIECE OF MINT-STICK, TO 
META CRAIG BIDDLE, AGED FOUR YEARS. 



" Restituit rem cunctando." 

Enn. ap Cicero. 

" Of Brownis and of Bogilis, ful is this bulce." 

Gawin Douglas. 



Bogle ! not he whose shadow flies 
Before a frighted Scotchman's eyes, 
But thou of Eighth near Sansom, thou 
Colorless colored man, whose brow, 
Unmoved, the joys of life surveys, 
Untouched the gloom of death displays, 
Reckless if joy or grief prevail — 
Stern, multifarious Bogle — hail ! 



Hail may'st thou. Bogle, for thy reign 
Extends o'er nature's wide domain, 

,3 



9 



.l.V ODE TO BOGLE. 

Begins before our earliest breath, 
Nor ceases witli the hour of death. 
Scarce seems the blushing maiden wed 
Unless thy care the supper spread ; 
Half christened only were that boy, 
Whose heathen squalls our ears annoy, 
If, service finished, cakes and wine 
Were given by any hand but thine ; 
And Christian burial e'en were scant 
Unless his aid the Bogle grant. 



Lover of pomps ! the dead might rise 

And feast — upon himself — his eyes, 

When marshalling the black array 

Thou rul'st the sadness of the day, 

Teaching how grief may be genteel, 

And legatees should seem to feel. 

Death's seneschal ! 'tis thine to trace 

For each his proper look and place, 

How aunts should weep, where uncles stand. 

With hostile cousins hand in hand ; 



AN ODE TO BOGLE. 

Give matchless gloves, and fitly shape 

By length of face the length of crape. 

See him erect, with lofty tread, 

The dark scarf streaming from his head, 

Lead forth his groups in order meet 

And range them grief-wise in the street; 

Presiding o'er the solemn show — 

The very Chesterfield of woe. 

Evil to him should bear the pall, 

Yet comes too late or not at all ; 

Wo to the mourner who shall stray 

One inch beyond the trim array ; 

Still worse the kinsman who shall move 

Until thy signal voice approve. 

Let widows anxious to fulfil 

(For the first time) the dear man's will. 

Lovers and lawyers ill at ease, 

For bliss deferred, or loss of fees. 

Or heirs impatient of delay. 

Chafe inly at his formal stay ; 

The Bogle heeds not — nobly true. 

Resolved to give the dead his due; 



AX ODE TO BOGLE. 

No jot of hoDor will he bate, 
Nor stir toward the church-yard gate, 
Till the last parson is at hand 
And every hat has got its band. 
Before his stride the town gives way — 
Beggars and belles confess his sway; 
Drays, prudes, and sweeps, a startled mass, 
Rein up to let his cortege pass ; 
And Death himself, that ceaseless dun 
Who waits on all, yet waits for none. 
Now hears a greater waiter's tone. 
And scarcelv deems his life his own. 



Nor less, stupendous man ! thy power 
In festal than in funeral hour, 
When gas and beauty's blended rays 
Set hearts and ball-rooms in a blaze. 
Or spermaceti's light reveals 
More " inward bruises " than it heals ; 
In flames each belle her victim kills, 
And " sparks fly upward " in quadrilles 



AN ODE TO BOGLE. 

Like iceberg in an Indian clime 
Refreshing Bogle breathes sublime 
Cool airs upon that sultry stream, 
From Roman punch and frosted cream. 



So — sadly social — when we flee 
From milky talk and watery tea, 
To dance by inches in that strait 
Between a sideboard and a grate, 
With rug uplift and blower tight 
'Gainst tlie red Demon Anthracite ; 
Then, Bogle o'er the weary hours 
A world of sweets incessant showers, 
Till, blest relief from noise and foam, 
The farewell pound-cake warns us home. 
Wide opes the crowd to let thee pass. 
And hail the music of thy glass, 
Drowning all other sounds — e'en those 
From Bollman or Sigoigne that rose. 
From Chapman's self some glance will stray. 
To rival charms upon thy tray. 



AX ODE TO nOGLE. 

Which thou dispensest with an air 

As life or death depended there — 

Wine for the luckless wretch, whose back 

Has stood against a window's crack ; 

And then, impartial, cooFst in turn 

The youth, whom love and Lehigh burn. 

On Johnson's smooth and placid mien 

A quaint and fitful smile is seen ; 

O'er Shepard's pale, romantic face, 

A radiant simper we may trace; 

But on the Bogle's steadfast cheek 

Lugubrious thoughts their presence speak— 

His very smile serenely stern 

As lighted lachrymary urn. 

In church or state, in bower or hall, 

He gives, with equal face, to all 

The wedding cake, the funeral crape. 

The mourning glove, the festal grape ; 

In the same tone, when crowds disperse, 

Calls Powell's hack or Carter's hearse ; 

As gently grave, as sadly grim. 

At the quick waltz as funeral hymn. 



AN ODE TO BOGLE. 

Thou social Fabius ! since the day 
When Rome was saved by wise delay, 
None else has found the happy chance, 
By always waiting, to advance. 
Let time and tide, coquettes so rude, 
Pass on, yet hope to be pursued. 
Thy gentler nature waits on all ; 
When parties rage, on thee they call 
Who seek'st no office in the State, 
Content, while others push — to wait. 
Yet — (not till Providence bestowed 
On Adam's sons, McAdam's road) — 
Unstumbling foot was rarely given 
To man or beast when quickly driven; 
And they do say — but this I doubt. 
For seldom he lets things leak out — 
They do say — ere the dances close, 
His, too, are " light fantastic toes." 
Oh, if this be so, Bogle ! then, 
How are we served by serving men ! 
A waiter by his weight forsaken ! 
An undertaker overtaken ! 



AN ODE TO BOGLE. 



L'ENVOI. 



Meta, thy riper years may know 
More of this world's fantastic show ; 
In thy time, as in mine, shall be 
Burials and pound-cake, beaux and tea; 
Rooms shall be hot, and ices cold, 
And flirts be both, as 'twas of old ; 
Love, too, and mint-stick shall be made, 
Some dearly bought, some 'ightly weighed; 
As true the hearts, the forms as fair. 
And equal joy and beauty there; 
The smile as bright, as soft the ogle. 
But never — never such a Bos-le ! 



The following lines were written in 1823. To make them 
intelligible, it should be said that on a former occasion the 
author had addressed some verses to Miss Sarah Lukens Keene, 
who had requested a contribution for her album. Mr. Biddle, 
who had not long before removed from the country to the city, 
returned the volume, with the following apology for not com- 
plying with the request: 

Time was when to see thee, fair lady, alone 
Would wake into verse this cold bosom of stone; 
But now thy command, all unchanged as thou art, 
Cannot kindle the fancy nor soften the heart. 
So unequal our fates, since that scythe-bearing Time, 
Appeased by thy beauty, provoked by my rhyme. 
Though he folded his wings and muffled his tread. 
And passed without touching a hair of thy head, — 
As he came by my farm, cut me down to a cit, 
And dispersed my small stock of merinos and wit. 
If you deem this some pretext made up for my wife. 
Pray look at my dwelling and think of my life. 
Not a mummy wrapt up in his pyramid hall. 
Nor the toads that live on for whole years in a wall. 



Nor the famed Irou Mask, breathe more dulhiess and 

gloom 
Thau I, ^vhen enclosed in my vast marble tomb, 
'Mid vaults of damp stone and huge chests of cold 

iron, 
That would quell all the fancy of Shakespeare or 

Byron. 

Alas ! had the ancients, who so much surpass us. 
In their pure golden age, fixed a hank on Parnassus, 
What a model of wisdom and pleasure to follow ! 
Only think now — to sign one's bank-notes like Apollo ! 
But that rake of Olympus — too happy to rove — 
Would have scorned to make money and cease to 

make lov^e ; 
And the Muses whose sex condescends to protectors 
Have a true female scorn for all sorts of directors. 
'Tis fiercely avenged though, for Banks, where they 

know it. 
Feel a horror that warns them to shun every poet; 
And since the first rhyme, the Muses' fond votary 
If ever he's trusted soon goes to the notary. 



Even I, sainted ladies, who, fixed on my farm. 
Though you never would visit me, wished you no 

harm, 
Even I would exchange — shall I dare to confess 

t' ye all — 
For one sheet of bank notes, the whole quire celes- 
tial. 
I prefer my last letter from Barings or Hope 
To the finest epistles of Pliny or Pope; 
My "much-esteemed favors" from Paris, to those 
Which brought on poor Helen an Iliad of woes ; 
One lot of good bills from Prime, Bell, or the 

Biddies, 
To whole volumes of epics or satires or Idyls; 
Nay, two lines of plain prose with a good name 

upon it, 
To the tenderest fourteen ever squeezed in a sonnet. 
Why I would not accept — not for Hebe's account — 
The very best draft from Helicon's fount, 
Kor give — this it grieves me to say to their faces — 
More than three days of grace to all the three 
Graces. 

13 



Then tlieir music of spheres ! can it thrill through 

the soul 
I^ike kegs of new dollars as inward they roll? 
And Cecilia herself, though her lyre was divine, 
Never gave to the world notes equal to mine. 

But we've parted in peace now, I never shall quarrel 
If my branches like Daphne's won't sprout into 

laurel ; 
And renouncing illusions, find peace and content 
In that simplest, sublimest of truths — six per cent. ; 
AVhile the Bank is my goddess, its desks are my 

altars. 
And all my "fine phrenzy" is spent on defaulters. 
tSo, unless — like the sculptor of old — in this stone 
You cau breathe inspiration as pure as your own. 
Be it mine, while no scribbling your tablets defaces, 
To keep out of your book, but keep in your good 

ir races. 



LiBRfiRY OF CONGRESS 



